


the lost tape

by vol_ctrl



Series: StaticLoveTune Week Series [5]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is an Asshole, Asshole Husbands, Banter, Conversations, Demon Deals, Enemies, First Impressions, First Meetings, Game Shows, Maximilien V. Oxley, Negotiations, Vox Talks Like Max Headroom, Vox is an Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:42:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl
Summary: There's a NEW ambitious media demon in Pentagram City. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, right?
Relationships: Alastor & Vox (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: StaticLoveTune Week Series [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1797553
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	the lost tape

**Author's Note:**

> DAY SEVEN: FIRST MEETING
> 
> [#StaticLoveTuneWeek prompts](https://twitter.com/vol_ctrl/status/1273978843804495873?s=20)

> _Nec audiendi qui solent dicere,_ **_Vox populi_ ** _, vox Dei, quum tumultuositas vulgi semper insaniae proxima sit._
> 
> _And those people should not be listened to who keep saying the_ **_voice of the people_ ** _is the voice of God, since the riotousness of the crowd is always very close to madness._

  
  


CCTV PENT. TER-3. 0-5.

06-27-58

21:03

“Good ez-ex-evening, ladies and gz-gx-gentlemen…”

For a moment, Alastor wondered if he had gone _truly_ mad and was hearing a flawed playback of his very own top-of-the-show salutation looped in his head.

“Thanks for tz-tx-tuning in,” the playback continued. 

It had to be coming from _somewhere._ It had a canned and broadcast quality to it. But it was… _not… quite… right…_

“We’ve got a gz-gx-great show for you tonight…”

The performance had a low-and-slow, intimate rhetoric to it. A presenter from his own school of thought; talk to the listener as if they are the one and only, speak to that lonely soul on the other end of speaker and wire.

A flicker of light caught Alastor’s eye. Blink-blink- _hum._ Across the street, a television set came to light. He squinted at the offending glare.

“A _vz-vx-very_ special guest…”

The voice did not _approach_ so much as rise in volume. 

Blink-blink- _hum._ Click-blink- _hum._

“I’m _sxxxxxure_ you _az-ax-all_ know him…”

More and more of those idiot boxes blinked on from shop windows and refuse piles spilling from alleyways. The voice rose all around him, a swelling wave of sound, the warp and distortion more and more jarring. It lacked the smooth edges of vacuum tubes and speakers bound in cloth. Instead it was tinny and sharp, pins and crinkled foil in the ears.

Alastor could _taste_ the change in the air--singed blood, like a forgotten pot boiling over on the stove, overheated wires, a scent like ozone. 

“Coming to you lz-lx- _live!_ ”

All around Alastor, the televisions switched channel to display the same image: a rudimentary face. Two wild eyes, one branded with the bands of a camera test slide, and a simple, fanged mouth marked out on the pixelated resolution, fuzz-softened by the blinding screen glow.

“... unlike these poor sz-sx-suckers strewn on the pavement!” Gone was the warm, dulcet tones of sedate evening listening, replaced by a virulent exuberance that set the teeth on edge. 

“Would yz-yx-you just look at ‘em all--pz-px-pretty as posies, little hz-hx-heads turned toward the sun! Well, what’s left of their hz-hx-heads. And what’s left of the sz-sx-sun, for that matter!”

A raucous laugh carried across the street, echoed from television set after television set. Tinny, mixed-quality noise filled the air. 

Alastor did not care for unscheduled interruptions to his broadcasts. With little more than a thought, he boosted his frequency, flooding the channels with the strong, oppressive tone of dead air.

“Hz-hx-hold on, fz-fx-folks, we’ve gz-gx-got some _turbulence_ here. Remain in your sz-sx-seats until the cz-cx-captain has sz-sx-says it’s safe to move about the cabin…”

Loud, sharp clicks cut through the still night in the wake of a massacre, many channels on many sets changing. The face was on every channel, twitching, changing expression. A deafening roar of static announced each shift of channel until a bright hum rang through, clear as a bell, cutting through the dead air.

“Network? Nz-Nx-Network, are you receiving us?” the voice called out, and the very same voice responded to itself in a deeper tone, “We az-ax-are receiving you. Yz-yx-you have a clear chz-chx-channel.”

Screens on all sides of Alastor broadcast that face. “There’s that hz-hx-handsome guy,” the faces said in near-unison, wearing a cheesy grin all.

But the broadcast face was not looking at Alastor. Not quite. Their attention was gathered to a point several meters down the road. Applause rolled out, echoing off broken asphalt and cracked windows. The applause broke out into cheers, hooting and hollering, and with a great BANG!--and none-too-shabby pyro-electrical-technics--there stands the genuine article: a sharp-dressed demon in a broad-shouldered, double-breasted suit, electricity dancing over his puffed cravat and sleek lapels, boasting a television set mounted where his head should be.

“Broke the mz-mx-mold when I came through those fz-fx-fiery gates,” the electrified man said, display blinking to life to look at his self-same face in one of the banks of televisions, shooting himself a wink.

Alastor stood unmoved by the display. He brushed an errant bit of static from the tail of his coat and summoned his microphone from across the killing field, fingers snapping smartly around the staff.

“Hey, big guy,” the primary-television wearing a suit said to him with a confidential tip of his set.

Alastor lifted a brow. “Ah, so you’re the one making that _lousy racket_ across the frequencies…”

“The mz-mx-man of the hz-hx-himself!” the newcomer announced. “Would you jz-jx-just look at him, fz-fx-folks. The rabid, the _ravenous--_ the oh-so reliable!-- _and dare I say rz-rx-rakish--_ Rz-Rx-Radio Demon!” The television barrelled on with its performance, gesticulating for a crowd of invisible viewers.

 _Rakish_ wasn’t the half of it. The Radio Demon was downright _resplendent_ in his gory glory, broadcast for all of Hell to see. The raw power that radiated from him was so oppressive as to almost seize the body, fight or flight instinct eviscerated by the inevitability of his omnipotence. A rare and exotic sight, indeed, for the viewers at home.

Alastor’s carmine gaze glittered upon the demon before him. “My, my…”

“A rare, _nz-nx-never-before-seen_ scoop _,_ a oz-ox-one of a kind spectacle, Sinners! The Rz-Rx-Radio Demon himself! _Live,_ in the flesh.”

His ears twitched at the rapid-fire voice, jaunty as a typewriter--jagged with a broken key.

“How... ridiculous.” A blood-drenched grin spread across the Radio Demon’s visage, pure amusement. His bloodlust had been sated--for now--and what stood before him was frankly the most absurd thing he had ever seen.

“And he cz-cx-certainly _is_ IN - THE - FZ-FX-FLESH,” the presenter proclaimed as he began to stalk a wide circle around the Radio Demon, those eyes flicking and jumping up and down Alastor’s blood-soaked frame. “Az-Ax-Alastor,” the newcomer said by way of greeting, bowing reverently as he returned to his starting point. “May I cz-cz-call you Alastor?” Well--none _too_ reverently. He snapped back up to meet those dark scarlet eyes.

Alastor folded his hands upon his microphone gracefully. “Don’t bow so low,” he insisted in an airy tone. “That contraption looks quite heavy.”

“My bz-bx-burden to bz-bx-bear,” came the quick reply. “Hz-hx-heavy lies the crown.”

Alastor raised a brow. “A common misquotation,” he mused, a hint of disappointment. “ _Uneasy is the head that wears a crown._ ”

Without a moment’s hesitation: “Is it?”

Alastor’s rack of horns was on full display, his _crown,_ anointing his baptism by blood. A tug at the corner of those bloodthirsty lips, predator eyes hooded with calm. It was unclear if the lowly demon was asking for clarification about the quotation, or the state of _his_ head, but the steady confidence broadcast on that screen face suggested the latter. How... entertaining.

“How _wz-wx-was_ the rampage today, Alastor? Beautiful wz-wx-weather for it.”

“I’ve heard of catching runaway refrigerators, but a runaway television… That’s new on me,” Alastor replied, not to be outdone with non-sequiturs. “And who might you be, my strange newfangled fellow?”

The demon before him reached into the breast of his coat as he strode forward. “Oxley.”

Alastor found himself presented with, of all things, a _business card,_ clipped neatly between two long fingers. He could hardly contain his amusement as he lifted a hand and plucked the card.

“But you can call me _Mz-Mx-Maxx._ ”

“Oh?” Alastor studied the card. There was the name--MAXIMILIEN V. OXLEY--embossed in gold upon matte black. He could feel the weight of the name--it was the demon’s _true_ name, the one writ upon his very soul. “And to what do I owe the _honor_ of your given name?” He lifted his eyes to meet pixelated ones.

“It’s oz-ox-only fair, isn’t it?” The television head insisted with a grin that oozed _signature._ “We’re cz-cx-colleagues, yz-yx-you and I.”

“We are.” Not quite a question--more a statement lilting with interest, inviting the stranger to go on.

“Bz-bx-broadcasters,” he said with a theatrical flourish, eyes blown wide on his rounded display. “ _Entertainers._ ”

“Oh,” Alastor indulged him with a wide flash of his eyes. “You’re here to _entertain_ me, then? Delightful.” He tipped his head and swept his staff aside.

“I cz-cx-came to az-ax-applaud your efforts!” he said in a congratulatory tone.

Alastor _was_ entertained--by how bold this poor fool was. He spoke without an ounce of fear. When the television image changed from that of pixelated features to a moving picture of a cheering crowd, Alastor was tickled.

“My efforts.” He drummed his fingers over the microphone, a smile playing on his lips.

“You’ve created an ez-ex-empire,” Maxx said, clicking back to his expressive channel. “A bz-bx-broadcast revolution!”

“I think of it more as an... occupation.”

The screen flickered, and the chuckle that emerged fizzled with static. “You’re clever!” he said, waving a finger at Alastor. “Thz-thx-they told me yz-yx-you were clever,” he laughed. “Fz-fx-funny.”

“ _Who_ told you?” Alastor asked, grin spreading across his lips. “Not many survive my sense of humor.”

“I’ll cz-cx-consider myself one of the lz-lx-lucky ones, then.”

“To survive it?”

“To _ez-ex-enjoy_ it,” he clarified with a winning smile. Before Alastor could continue the patter, the loudmouth demon began his next segment. “Lz-lx-let’s get to know ez-ex-each other a little better, bz-bx-big guy,” he said, reaching into his jacket once more. This time he withdrew a set of notecards, straightening them with a snap of his talons.

“This should prove illuminating,” Alastor murmured patiently.

“Nz-nx-now, Alastor, Mz-Mx-Mr. Rz-Rx-Radio Demon… You’re a mz-mx-man of the media.”

“Yes,” Alastor agreed, playing along with the little interview routine.

“A pz-px-passion you’ve hz-hx-had since before your _untz-tx-timely_ demise, I hear…”

Alastor opened his mouth to contribute, but found barely the space of a breath before the ‘host’ was hurtling onward.

“But your pz-px-program hardly focuses on the nz-nx-news.”

“It is Hell. We have no shortage of journalists to cover the _news,_ such as it is.”

“Have you kz-kx-kept up with news from the Lz-Lx-Land of the Lz-Lx-Living?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“WELL THEN,” he said grandly with a sweep of his arm. “Hz-hx-have I got a TREAT for you! A little nz-nx-news quiz shz-shx-show to get you cz-cx-caught up!”

Alastor’s grin pulled a bit wider.

“Are you rz-rx-ready to play?” Maxx asked, leaning forward sharply.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Maxx adjusted his cards with an excited wiggle of his brow. “In 1945, _whz-whx-which_ Academy Award winning dz-dx-director switched his fz-fx-focus to daytime tz-tx-television and chz-chx-changed the landscape forever?”

Alastor gave the stranger a dubious look. “Afraid that’s beyond my purview.”

“Yz-yx-you’re lookin’ at him, bz-bx-buddy,” Maxx informed him. “Next question! _Whz-whx-who_ is the mz-mx-mastermind behind the sz-sx-smash hit quiz show ‘All’s Fair’? Cz-cx-currently running its tz-tx-tenth season on all fz-fx-four major networks…”

“Are these all going to be television related?” Alastor asked, that most dangerous of moods creeping in: boredom.

“That’s right, yz-yx-yours truly!”

Alastor almost pitied the self-centered fool.

“Last question,” Maxx told him with a grin of anticipation.

“Goodie.”

“ _Whz-whx-whose_ much-mourned premature dz-dx-death was attended by mz-mx-millions via the FIRST EVER _live_ tz-tx-televised funeral?”

“Let me guess....”

“That was mz-mx-me--riots at the wz-wx-will reading, to boot.”

“Fascinating.” A dead-pan smile rested on Alastor’s face as he took in this exhausting, two-dimensional fraud of an entertainer. The entertainment was _there,_ but brittle as a thin veneer on pure vanity.

“Nz-nx-now that we knz-knx-know each other a bit bz-bx-better,” Maxx said as he tossed his notecards blindly over his shoulder and moved on to the next part of his program, “I can fill ya in on thz-thx-the reason bz-bx-behind this whole _sz-sx-special_.”

Apparently there would _be_ no interview portion. Then again, Alastor’s reputation preceded him. “Oh, there _is_ a reason,” Alastor mused with polite surprise.

“Nz-nx-naturally. There’s gz-gx-got to be a _clz-clx-climax._ ”

“I’m on the edge of my seat,” Alastor preened calmly.

“I’m hz-hx-here to pz-px-propose a _deal._ ”

“ _Really,_ ” Alastor purred, eyes narrowed to delighted slits. “A deal, you say.” He already had the fool’s name, what more could he squeeze out of him?

“A… cz-cx-collaboration, if you will,” Maxx said with a generous wave of his hand. “With your _dz-dx-decades_ of experience,” he said, eyes leering, a hint of condescension, pity for the old man, glittering there, “and my fz-fx-fresh, innovative, new iz-ix-ideas--” The electric demon slid deftly on his heels around to Alastor’s side and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, waving his hand broadly across the skyline of Pentagram City before them. “Just _imagine._ ”

Alastor gave the claw draped over his shoulder the side-eye, then flicked his gaze over at that blocky excuse for a head.

“What, exactly, can _you_ do for _me_?” Alastor asked, his tone slow and even.

The television jerked to face him with an eager grin. “Dz-dx-don’t ya see?”

“I see a flash-in-the-pan fool lacking any semblance of decorum.” In a whisper of shadow, Alastor vanished from beneath the other’s arm and reappeared in front of him. “An ignorant, _green_ Johnny-come-lately with no respect for his _elders._ ” Alastor’s grin widened. “You’ve already showed your hand, darling. For all intents and purposes,” he said, tucking his microphone primly behind his back and withdrawing the silly little business card from his breast pocket, “I _already_ own your soul.”

“Cz-cx-consider that a token of gz-gx-good faith,” he replied, grin not budging an inch.

“Hahaha! To what end?” Alastor asked incredulously.

“You dz-dx-dominate the airwaves. For _now…”_ That pixelated smile glinted dangerously. “You know why pz-px-people have tz-tx-taken to watching tz-tx-television instead of the rz-rx-radio, right?”

Alastor indulged the idiot with a raise of one eyebrow.

“They’ve rz-rx-realized how bz-bx-boring it is _watching_ the rz-rx-radio!” That television tipped back in howling laughter, amplified by dozens upon dozens of laugh tracks.

“ _Tell me,_ you lunatic,” Alastor sneered through a gleaming grin. “What _are_ your ratings like?”

The laugh track cut, replaced by playback of awed gasps from the audience. “Rz-rx-ratings? You wanna talk rz-rx-ratings?!” he howled proudly. “I’m the oz-ox-only game in tz-tx-town, big guy,” he boasted. “Dz-dx-don’t need a cz-cx-call sign when yz-yx-you _OWN_ the airwaves.”

Alastor’s smile calmed in the face of all that boasting and bravado. “Right now,” he clarified. “What are your ratings _right now._ ”

That cocky grin froze on the demon’s face as electricity sizzled between the long antenna mounted from the crown of his ridiculous head. Alastor could hear the tell-tale beep of signal broadcasting and receiving.

“ _Sx-sz-six million sz-sx-sinners and counting,_ ” he reported.

Alastor whistled.

“Nz-nx-now you’re chz-chx-changing your tune…” The overconfident broadcaster chuckled.

Alastor examined his claws disinterestedly. He brought his microphone forth with a twirl and gave it a tap with his fingers, a perfunctory test to ensure it was still live. “I was merely curious how many television sets would go dark when I pull your plug.”

“Hahaha! Ya tz-tx-talk big for an az-ax-antique, buddy.” Without an ounce of hesitation, the _new_ media demon brought forth a fist that sizzled with electrical current, dark claws twitching-eager for a fight. “Shz-shx-showdown of the cz-cx-century!” he boomed. His voice echoed far beyond his own speakers, lifted from every set in the city at ear-splitting volumes. “Just _think_ of the rz-rx-ratings,” he sizzle-static-spit at Alastor, low, just between fellow entertainers.

Alastor’s crimson eyes fixed on the television demon alone. His smile grew very small, just a minute curve of the lips. Then, he laughed. It was not the terrifying laugh of a maniac, but the joyful ring of true amusement.

The sound of that laugh sapped some of the fire from his opponent. His grin tugged to one side of his screen. He let out a chuckle of his own. “Whz-whx-what’s so funny, big guy?” he asked. “Lz-lx-love a good jz-jx-joke--soon as I knz-knx-know there is one.”

“Oh, _pauvre petit_.” Alastor clicked his tongue. Just as quick as the flick of his eyes, he had changed his mind. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time.” He relaxed and tipped his head with sympathy. “Perhaps if this little… experiment of yours,” he said, dripping with false generosity, “shows any promise… I might consider giving you a little boost.” He sighed, wiping his hands of the encounter with a quick turn of his heel. “Best of luck!”

“Wz--” A loud crash of static sounded from that television head followed by a resounding _crack._

Alastor turned, eyes wide with delight. Had he so easily blown his mind, so to speak? This time, he took that moment of blown-fuse-hesitation to interject. “Oh, before I go...” This insufferable talking head was even _more_ entertaining when the rug had been pulled from under him. “Word to the wise,” he said sweetly and snapped his fingers. Maxx’s business card flew to his hands, then swiftly caught in green flame. “You’ll want to find a more appropriate... _stage name_ if you’re going to survive long to _make it_ in this town.” 

A little _gift._ He _was_ in an indulgent mood. He would soon forget this idiot’s name, to be sure. Not long before the rest of Hell, if this so-called _entertainer_ didn’t wise up. Alastor would hate to see such investment on future entertainment wasted. ( _His_ entertainment, obviously.)

“Wz-wx-wait,” Maxx said, laughing low as he cradled the corner of his set with his hand, shaking his head. “Yz-yx-you’re gonna wz-wx-walk away from the oz-ox-opportunity of a lifetime?” he asked incredulously.

“I believe it’s a bit late for that,” Alastor replied with a cheeky smile.

“HAhahA--” he choked out in a broken, scratched tone. “We’re talkin’ about bz-bx-broadcasting _supreme-mx-macy--_ ” He couldn’t fathom why this old man wouldn’t want to join forces with what was _clearly_ the way of the future. “Fz-fx-fear… az-ax-adoration of millions…” He could almost taste it. “Cz-cx-controlling the hz-hx-hearts and mz-mx-minds of _Hell!_ ” he insisted, that perfect plan, the sweet, sweet taste of inevitable success, slipping away from him.

“Oh, I have no interest in the _vox populi,_ dear fellow,” Alastor told him calmly. “Frankly, I don’t give a damn.”

“Heh.” The set atop the demon’s shoulders was tilted off-kilter, that expression still broadcasting confidence, but it was hollow and flat on his two-dimensional face. His features were blown out and bleeding across his resolution. “Ha… hahaha… HAHAHA!”

“Stay tuned, darling,” Alastor said as he turned his back on the madman and strode a path through the destruction of his own design. This was _far_ better than any little violent scuffle in the streets. He could _feel_ the proud demon’s agony, his poor ego battered and bruised for all to see. “You might learn a thing or two from your forebears.”

No… He wouldn’t dare… The Radio Demon never skipped a spectacle…

And yet, there he went. Walking away from him. _Ignoring him._

A fate worse than death. Worse than double-death. Worse than _this_ fate, consciousness sutured into wires and transistors.

This could not be the end.

No, it was _far_ from the end.

He would make sure of that.

He would ensure Alastor found the _vox populi_ impossible to ignore.

Circuits fit to blow, laughter bouncing madly within him, without him, throughout the city, determined to have the last word, he bellowed: “Oh, you hz-hx-haven’t heard the lz-lx-last from the **_VOX POPULI._ **”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Check me out on Twitter [@vol_ctrl](https://twitter.com/vol_ctrl) for updates on what I'm working on and more HH content!


End file.
